Grey Over St Petersburg
by Ashida
Summary: The first stop is St Petersburg; Russia. Little did he know, it would be his last, because as he sat outside a cafe, trying to vanquish his jet lag with caffeine, he saw him. [Mikhail/Akihito] AU
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

My homage to Mikhail Arbatov. Because he is mine XD

I debated whether to put this on up or not but this one has been eating at me for a while now, the first chapters sat completed, and I got restless.  
>The more I think about it, the more I ship it, the more I'm unable to write anything else, because this ship has fucking sailed far far away, and it's never coming back, I'm not sorry for it.<p>

I'm not expecting much response from this, I just hope, that in the end people will like it as much as I like it in my own head, even though I know it's not everyones' favorite pair.

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><p>Juvenile delinquent was an overstatement, definitely.<p>

First off, there were the vandalism charges, though he called it art. He was doing Tokyo a damn favor by spray-painting his work over the heinous eyesores, which others his age doodled on any available wall space.

To Akihito, it would be better to hand a can of paint to a toddler rather than the try hards that called themselves taggers.

His 'vandalism' though, people _stopped_ in their cars to take photos of, vibrant murals and landscapes all done with a multiple colored cans of spray paint, it was a vast improvement to their shitty scribbles, yet he still got pinged for it every time, by the police _or _by the people who's scrawls he worked over.

That's where the next charges came in, brawling. He always happened to get into scraps with said taggers because they always knew it was him that 'defiled' (yeah fucking right) their colorful diarrhea, and street fights always led to the police being called, and then came the inevitable ride in a cop car back to the station for the night.

Sure, he would have gone to juvie a few times if his old man hadn't pulled some strings and got him off, and maybe his grades weren't that great.

And maybe he didn't care about any of the above except for the fact that council workers always got rid of his passion with plain white paint, only to be littered with shitty ass tagging all over again.

Still, given all that, delinquent was taking it a bit too far.

He should have felt bad now that he had the label, his family had an image to maintain after all, his old man was a district attorney, his mom, a doctor, they couldn't have their son ending up in the cells nearly every weekend, not out of concern for him of course, only out of the fact that it interrupted their dodgy as hell work hours which meant he never saw them at all.

The times his old man picked him up from the station were about the only times he saw his dad, the car ride home possibly the longest time they spent together now also, and only time he saw or spoke to his old lady was when she rung to inform him there was money for take out on the kitchen bench, or when she was patching him up hastily from 'yet another-when will you learn-fight'. Then she would look at him, give him some _more_ money as if that would fix everything, and leave.

And so for that, Akihito didn't feel one single fucking ounce of remorse. They would do what they did, and he would keep on doing the same thing as well.

Akihito wasn't that dense, his parents didn't work on the legal side of the fence by any means. The 'businessman' that employed them was more than a yakuza for fucks sake, Asami or whatever the hell his name was, he'd heard that name in the cells enough to know that the reason Akihito was allowed to walk was because his old man worked for him.

The old lady seemed to be the preferred physician when it came to gun shot wounds and stabbings as well, so it didn't take long for Akihito as a youngster to put it all together when their front door was knocked down at ungodly hours of the morning all the time by men in suits demanding medical attention.

Mom had long since brought a building in Shinjuku to work out of, which is where she spent all her time the moment her son was old enough to make cup ramen.

His parents were well-respected members, _cough crooks cough, _of society, and their son wasn't exactly their pride and joy.

As he got older and moved into senior high school everything got exponentially worse, the only things he wasn't failing at school were Art, and English.

English because he wanted to get the fuck out of this trap called Tokyo, he wanted to see the globe and all the shades of the ocean and the different greens of open pastures. He wanted to marvel at different architecture and cultures, and immerse himself in the wonders of the world. He wanted to sit down with his easel and brushes, forget everything else, and put it all on canvas. English could help him do all that.

Next was art, because that's what he liked, no _lived_. That's what he wanted to do with his life. He loved color, or black and white, he loved photos and manipulating light, he loved it when the spark of inspiration took hold of him and allowed him to create something that was truly his.

Akihito cherished art, he loved that he could put something in his mind onto canvas for the world to see and interpret in their own way, everyone would get something out of it, even if it wasn't the same thing.

Art could incite _feeling_ into people's day to day life, the city of Tokyo was like a big bees nest of factory workers and salary men, all day, every day, the same.

A nicely placed painting could make spending everyday in an office that much better, a photo could preserve precious memories for eternity, could capture a life changing moment, could tell unspoken truths, and record the passage of time like words couldn't.

An artist could draw or paint a _different_ thing each time, change one thing in a photo, and it would never be the same no matter how hard you tried to replicate it, so yeah, of course he was drawn to art, who wouldn't be?!

When he declared that to his old man at the start of senior year, that's when the shit it the fan.

Art was not a career choice for someone in their family apparently. Blah blah blah. He should have been a doctor like his mother, or a gone into law like his father. Expectations this, expectations that.

Get fucked, expectations!

According to his dad, it was a choice to be hippy and live in poverty for the rest of his life.

Well, that sounded pretty damn good to Akihito, because to him it translated to: live freely doing whatever the fuck he wanted, not held back by a mortgage or a monotonous everyday job.

The more they tried tell him his study path was pointless, the more they disregarded what he actually wanted and shoved brochures for top universities at him, the more angry he became, the more he tried to vent with spray cans and fights, the more he caused trouble for his parents, because it made them look bad, and the cycle repeated, growing in toxicity each time.

The street clashes got vicious as he grew older, broken bones and stitches went with the police bailouts, therapy visits and pent up frustrations.

In the end, he started physically fighting with his dad each time he was brought home and locked in his room. Of course the police looked the other way, despite the concerned looks his neighbors gave him on his way to school every morning after a big punch up, no doubt they'd called authorities, to no avail. He didn't give a toss about that either, it's not like he couldn't give as good as he got.

After one particular fistfight, coupled with yelling enough for the police to actually come to their high-class street and check, they agreed to a compromise.

The young blonde was made to promise to pass _all _his senior subjects including math, (which Akihito thought would be impossible and his father was just setting him up to fail).

He still had to go to university, his old man wasn't giving in on that, and most of all, he had to keep out of trouble with police the entire last year he lived in their house, and also for the duration of his university studies.

His old man was definitely setting him up to fail, he couldn't go two weeks without some punk picking a fight with him, it's not like he wanted to fight, the trolls just came to him automatically, so how was he going to go _four fucking years! _

The deal was though, that if Akihito passed his high school exams, and behaved for the first year, he could study the art major he wanted to, and his parents would pay for it all.

Ok, that was a pretty sweet deal, he thought maybe it would be worth a try.

His dad's four-year compromise came into play then, if his son did manage to stick it out for the entire four years, stay out of their hair, and graduate with honors, then Akihito would be given an open plane ticket, an up to date pass port, and an all expenses paid trip around the world.

Ok. He was definitely going to fucking do it.


	2. Grey Horizon

Thank you to Tarantasik for betaing :)

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><p>He did it. Holy shit, he did it.<p>

Senior year at high school was the hardest, he only got one extra mark needed to pass the Math exam, and that was when all the _actual_ delinquents kept trying to beat the shit out of him, but fuck them, because _he_ did it.

After that, he moved out into a crummy little studio with peeling paint that was too yellow to be called white, and obnoxiously creaky floorboards that shrieked even though he wasn't even fucking stepping anywhere near that particular spot; but it was close to the university, it took him five minutes to get there on foot, so that didn't leave much time for trouble to find him on the way there or back.

He made a couple of straight-laced friends who lived in the same building and studied on the same campus as well: the idealist Kou, who studied IT, and Takato, the sensible one studying Accountancy; hanging out with them practically forced Akihito to be good.

The only thing that brought him close to a deal-breaker was his new way of art appreciation.

He lived and breathed imagination and creativity so much that he'd had art permanently put on his body in the form of two full-length sleeve tattoos, right from shoulder down to the knuckles of his hands, in traditional Japanese Irezumi style.

His right arm featured a twisting red dragon that lent him strength and determination on the days where he was itching for a face to smash or bricks to color on. It coiled from his wrist around the length of his arm, all the way up to the front his shoulder where the head of the beast roared in permanent silence on his skin in defiance of his urges that would piss on everything.

His left arm featured a pair of serene koi fish, reds and oranges blending in on their scales, the first koi flowed with the lines of his upper arm, tail starting at the elbow, swimming upward toward his shoulder. The other fish was swimming down from his elbow, molding over the length of his forearm. They brought him resolution and a new sense of clear-headedness that was impossible for the bad tempered person he was in high school; they helped him grow up and mellow out just a _tad, _because Takaba Akihito would never be considered mellow.

Both pieces were tied together with pink sakura blossoms placed tastefully as if floating on top of black and gray clouds flowing over his skin.

A large crimson Chrysanthemum took up the entire the space on the backs of each hand, deep in hue with clean lines and solid color, the work impeccable, they finished just above his permanently scarred knuckles.

He was proud of traditional Japanese art, and what better way for him to express his pride than to have the symbol of Japan in plain sight no matter what he wore.

He was pushing the boundaries a little bit with his folks with the tattoos, but the pain, the endless droning of the gun, and long hours on the table as the needle drove ink into his skin were all worth it.

Once Shige, his tattooist, sat back from his chair and announced it was finished, one year after the first dot for the outline went into his flesh, he felt this sense of completeness.

He was an artist in truth, not a punk brat; he was emancipated from all the bad reputations he'd gained as a teen.

Who he was on the inside was now reflected on the outside, and it was so much easier to stay out of trouble after that. Instead of painting on brick walls and drawing in wannabe gangsters to brawl with, he could look at the art on his arms, he could sketch on paper, put watercolor on canvas or take meaningless photos that meant _something_ to him, because he was a goddam artist, and he wasn't too shabby either.

_He _stayed out of trouble, but it didn't mean that trouble never came to him, because it did, and often. His rep as a teen rebel might be gone, but his tattoos gave him a new sort of stereotype. Yet another reason to hold on to this deal, so he could get out.

He'd gotten into shit a few times in town when he went out drinking because of his body art, people sometimes mistook him for yakuza, and he'd often been chased out of certain districts because they thought he was from a rival clan. He was pretty fit as a result and knew the places he could and couldn't go to, not that it ever stopped him.

One time, at the start of his last year at university, he managed to take a wrong turn and get himself caught, and dragged back to a clan head, Yoshio Tsunoda, who laughed at the thought of the blonde posing any threat to them. He then sat Akihito down and they got drunk on sakè while talking about various styles of Japanese art and tattoos, from Hannya masks and samurai to three legged crows and Tengu of the ancient forests.

In the end, he even designed a back piece for the Yoshio of the Inagawa group, which Akihito learned was the third largest yakuza family in Japan.

He cut it pretty fucking close alright, lucky the old bugger saw what his underlings didn't, a stubborn young man with the knack for getting in the shit, not anyone dangerous, because forget about his overseas trip if the man thought otherwise he'd be sunk to the depths of Tokyo Bay instead.

The rest of his studies flew by after the tattoos were finished; he did his best to buckle down. Three years of post high school study was a long time, but a chance to see the world, to get out and travel and appreciate everything he desired was worth many more years than that. He was constantly online, looking for places to go and things he wanted to see, the list got bigger and bigger each day.

He stuck to his assignments, had a few boyfriends and girlfriends here and there, failed epically at the attempted relationships because he had no clue what he was doing really, attended all his lectures, he even commissioned a few pieces between semesters and made some money for himself, and finally before his 23rd birthday, graduated a Bachelor of Art with honors, he minored in English studies.

He was faced with a choice after gradation; leave Japan right away, or take up a job offer he was given; a short-term commission project that would last him until the end of July, the irony was though, that he was being commissioned to _fucking _spray paint murals of Japanese folktales in a popular gallery that had displayed some pretty big names. People knew about his talent with spray cans it seemed, and they offered him an entire wall from top to bottom, corner to corner of clean white paint that hadn't been tainted, and he couldn't resist.

At the beginning of August, his exhibit was put on display and it was announced it would be a permanent change to the walls of the gallery; his work was going to be there forever.

That itself was worth hanging around in Tokyo for the extra months.

Now though, that glorious plane ticket that was in his hands, along with the chrysanthemum emblazoned booklet that would get him out of this country and closer to his dreams.

The old man kept his end of the bargain, and right now you couldn't wipe the smile off of Takaba Akihito's face with a sledgehammer.

The reigns were finally coming off after four _long_ years. He was almost, _almost,_ to do one last graffiti mural down an alley, or he could pick a fight with all the pricks that still plagued him from high school, but there would be no point in that.

He'd made something of himself. He was actually allowed to express himself properly, legitimately, not illegally on a brick wall at midnight, or with his fists. There was no need for that shit now.

He was at the international terminal of the airport, his flight due to leave in an hour, his first destination, an artists' treasure trove, St Petersburg, Russia.

Paris, Venice or Berlin, he could have gone to any of those places, and he would eventually, but the soonest flight out after his commison project ended was to St Petersburg, so he picked that the moment he had the money from it in his hand.

In an awkward silence where words should be said, but no one could bring themselves to say them, so everyone present averted their eyes instead, he shook his father's hand, the first physical contact they'd had in years that didn't end in conflict. He still hand the instinct to shy away, a flinch from a blow that wouldn't come this time.

Their hands were stiff, unfamiliar in each others grip, the handshake of acquaintances more than family. He noted with no surprise that his old man didn't have his wedding band on, and then he looked over to his mom, she didn't either. It'd been like that since he was old enough to remember.

Being in each other's company wasn't like pins and needles anymore like it used to be. That's about as far as their family dynamic would ever go, and that was all good with him, because he had the plane ticket, his passport, a camera bag strapped over one shoulder, and a backpack with a sketch book, charcoals, oil pastels and travel guides in it over the other, his other luggage he'd already checked in.

The humdrum of the busy terminal continued around the small pocket of obstinate silence, a man in a suit ran with his briefcase flailing as he tried not to be late for his flight, a family huddled together crying as one of their children left for an obviously long time, one man sat and looked at his watch every five minutes while he read the finance section of today's paper, and a couple kissed intimately in the corner on their way to their honeymoon.

His flight was called, he was already picking his things up from the floor before the announcement finished, and his parents were already standing up to leave.

"If you get in trouble overseas, you're on your own." Takaba senior said as a statement, he still didn't fucking know how to talk to his own son.

"Yeah." Akihito shrugged it off, not like he'd expect help now that his parents weren't legally responsible for him anyway. "Catch ya later, mom, dad."

He walked away without a backwards glance, disappearing from his parents' sight as the crowds of the airport enveloped him.


	3. Grey Overwhelms

Thanks to Tarantasik again for the edit, and the tidbits on St Petersburg :) I want to go there now!

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><p>Grey Overwhelms.<p>

_-Bing bong._

"_Attention passengers, we are descending to land in St Petersburg in approximately 10 minutes, there is a light easterly wind, and the sky is clear, the captain predicts a smooth landing."_

"_Please fasten your seatbelts and put your sets up in any case, and have your passport ready for security. We hope you enjoyed your flight with Air Asia, and that your stay in St Petersburg is memorable. Local time is 3:30 am, please don't forget to set your devices to the correct time."_

The service announcement roused Akihito from his uncomfortable, cramped with a sore neck sleep in economy class. He blinked his bleary eyes as the 'fasten seatbelt' sign lit up on the display in front of him.

Fuck. He fell asleep on the twelve-hour flight. Now his sense of time was going to be all out of whack. He tried to keep himself awake with inflight movies and games but to no avail. Twelve hours was a long fucking time to sit down without falling asleep.

It wasn't like he could chat to the person sitting next to him either, who was sitting in the aisle seat, while Akihito got the window seat - yeah, suck on that, snobby bastard.

The man in his suit that looked half the price of the Armani ones his old man wore took one look at him - with his dyed blonde hair, headphones about his neck, ripped-up jeans paired with leather chucks and tight-fitted hoodie - and snubbed him right off the damn bat.

The beady-eyed cheap suited fucker didn't even bother to say hello when Akihito gave him a genuine smile and greeting.

Be like that, then!

It was hella funny watching the man from the corner of his eye stiffen when Akihito's tattooed hand went across his face to take food from the flight attendant though. The arrogant cold shoulder changed to a respectful cold shoulder after that. Sometimes, it wasn't so bad when people thought he was associated with organized crime.

The service announcement came over in English then, which Akihito understood with a self-satisfied – because he did it - ease, and then in Russian, which he didn't understand a word of. Frankly, he didn't want to because he was sure if he even attempted to speak the harsh language, he'd rip his voice box to shreds and never talk again, even if he thought that it sounded cool and at the same time intimidating.

Ignoring all that though, because he shouldn't be thinking about such dull shit when he was ten minutes away from starting his epic journey across the world, he turned to survey the view out the small window as the plane coasted down towards the second largest city in Russia.

It felt as if he'd been given a good punch in the sternum and he needed to concentrate to breathe. Beautiful was such a dumb word for a man to use; in fact, it was a dumb word for an artist to use too.

St Petersburg, Sankt-Peterburg, Leningrad, Piter, the city before him was called many different names depending on what generation you were from, but all he'd call it right now was beautiful.

At half past three in the morning, the entire world beneath him was bathed in ethereal twilight, nights at this time of year in the northern hemisphere didn't get to reach the shade of midnight, and for that his breath was taken faster than a pick pocket in the red-light districts of home could do the job.

Hues of purple and blue streaked the skyline, and the land mass was speckled with thousands of different colored lights, twinkling like diamonds scattered across a dusk colored blanket.

He could see veins of the city, glimmering highways in straight lines with moving vehicles pumping up and down in tiny specks of light, as if the city was alive.

A cluster of brilliance pulsed at its heart, the epicenter of the city was at the shoreline, next to the Gulf of Finland and the Neva River, which ran through St Petersburg and branched off in canals and channels, which were an artistic dream to sit and paint.

He'd researched it all, and now it was right in front of him, he hadn't even touched down yet, and it was better than anything he could ever have hoped for.

He was beginning to get that feeling, that spark that formed before inspiration hit him full force and it turned him into a mindless creature whose only instinct was to put his tools to work and create something beautiful.

His fingers began to itch in anticipation to pick up his brush, or a pencil, or charcoal or _anything_ so that he could render the sight before him on canvas and preserve this memory for life, because it was something he never wanted to forget.

He wasn't much of a believer in fate, or destiny or any of that shoujou manga bullshit, especially when it came to his life, but he had this indescribable feeling, it almost made him uneasy, telling him that St Petersburg was going to be special.

The ting of the café doorbell was a sharp cry against the muffled street noises that his jet-lagged brain was trying to tune out. A coffee, his _first_ coffee outside of Japan was placed on the table in front of him, the aroma of caffeine potent in his nostrils this early in the morning, too early for someone who'd been a student months ago to be up at, but here he bloody was.

He was sitting outside a hipster café in a trendy part of the city where clubs and cafés lined the paved roads, colorful art hanging on the walls inside at odd angles and varying heights, it gave an odd sentiment to each piece, they all fit on the wall like they belonged on their skewed axis of the world.

He couldn't help but notice that as the barista, who spoke thick English, put his coffee down he admired the lengths of his tattooed arms. Since he was only wearing a T-shirt today, his body art would be seen differently in a place like St Petersburg, and he was proud of the crimson flowers that represented Japan on the backs of each hand.

On the walls outside, in the air that was much fresher than that of carbon-tainted Tokyo, there were band posters and exhibition promotions layered on top of one another so much you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Loose corners flapped on the wall as small gusts of what smelt like freedom swept through the city.

It looked so much better than the unskilled streaks of paint that decorated the memories of his teenage years.

There was so much _color _in St Petersburg, but the only color he could conjure in his head right now though, was melancholy grey.

He wanted to see the color, he wanted to get up and explore, go to the Hermitage and spend hours looking at the perfection of one brush stroke on a painting that was older than he was five times over.

He longed to sit on grass that would probably be soft enough to sleep on in front of the Kazan Cathedral and stare at the sky with just a pencil and a sketchbook for company, because no one would pick fights with him here, he didn't have to worry about looking over his shoulder.

His mind could comprehend all the brilliance, but fucking jetlag was raining Satan's piss on any urge he had right now. As he saw it now, through tired, messed up sleep pattern lenses, everything was a blur of city overcast, harsh stone, slate pavement and dull colored clouds that hogged his thoughts. He didn't much like the color grey, in his art or in his head, but he shrugged it off, the caffeine was helping, and he knew a day's rest wouldn't hurt despite how he wanted to do and see everything right now at this instant, more like five minute ago, if he weren't so tired he would have been fidgeting with anticipation.

There was no set time limit on anything though, the credit card in his pocket would have its amount renewed each month for as many months as he stayed away, all he had to do was stay under the limit. He relaxed then, and really savored the taste of his coffee as he sat back and watched people go about their lives in this country that was so different to home it almost seemed like another planet. No one seemed as rushed, as desperate to get to wherever it was they were going, the traffic was mental, but slightly less mental than the hectic streets of Tokyo.

This was only the tip of the iceberg; he hadn't even been in St Petersburg for half a day, and his system was lagging as bad as a shitty LAN connection when playing online, but fuck, it felt good to be here.

He sighed, trying to ease the grey in his head, and leant back in his chair with the cup cradled in his hands, ah, shit, even with the triple shot cappuccino in his hands he was getting sleepy, and he really shouldn't. He had to wait until nighttime, or he'd never get his head in the right fucking time-zone.

Another gulp of coffee went down, and he watched over the rim of his cup as a polished black Hummer pulled up to the curb in front of the café, what a sick ride, there weren't many Hummers in Tokyo. He looked at the car for a few moments, noting how it looked pretty badass with its tinted windows and huge ass tires that looked suited for all terrain, as a Hummer should be, before deciding he'd had enough and turning away -

- Well, he was _going_ to turn away, but then someone got out from the driver's door, and for the second fucking time in as many days he felt like he was having another goddam shouju manga moment. What in the actual fuck…

This man stepping out of the Hummer was like, if Russia were a person, this man would be him.

He was built tall and strong, an immense presence that matched the country's status; he overwhelmed you just by _existing_. He was dignified, proud and Akihito could tell he was well respected just by looking at him. Who wouldn't respect those long legs and that powerful broad chest that commanded the very air he breathed?

At the same time though he was beautiful, as beautiful as the view of St Petersburg from the plane, like the city, he was bright, refined and colorful, as if the city took its feel from this very person.

But like Russia also, Akihito could sense a wilderness at his core, a Siberian blizzard in the depths of winter; there was something cold, dark and unforgiving about him, hidden underneath it all. People would rather avoid a person like him -too different, too strong, too dangerous. Misunderstood. Out of anyone's reach.

Minutes, or hours felt they'd passed, but it'd only been the space of about forty-five seconds, he _could_ look for hours though.

He snapped out of artistic mode to make himself stop gaping, he'd actually just done the full fucking art appreciation stare on the man as if he were a masterpiece, and he didn't think he would be able to function if the man caught Akihito looking at him. The thought alone made him want to melt into a puddle on the pavement.

Well, he was a masterpiece, a seriously hot, blond-haired, well-muscled masterpiece of ass. He wanted to keep looking, wanted him to get closer so he could see his eyes, his face, see the curve of his lip, and the plains of his neck that tapered down to his chest, but he couldn't keep staring, if the man were to look at him, he'd self-combust.

This wasn't a goddam shouju manga though, and this man _definitely _wouldn't look at him, so he'd risk it, he was a fucking daredevil, yeah!

He snickered to himself though, as he pictured himself saying 'notice me sempai'. He was done for.

Another man got out of the passenger seat then, he was older, held himself with the same dignity and his blonde slick hair had silver at the temples of his stoic face, showing his age and life experience. The older man kept the man-masterpiece's attention by talking to him, and Akihito tried to play it cool and make it look like he wasn't gawking directly at him like some feverish zombie-looking stalker. Instead he looked from the corner of his eye as the pair walked by him and into the café he'd just ordered coffee from.

_Real smooth, Akihito._

Then, he saw them. His eyes.

He saw them as the man turned and locked his Hummer with the remote on his keys, and then he couldn't breathe, or function, this was it. He was dead, definitely dead. This couldn't be real life, people didn't react like that to other people in real life.

He retracted his earlier moronic opinion about not liking the color grey.

Because his eyes were grey. Mercurial grey; ever changing and unpredictable, they gleaned like gunmetal when his eyes caught the sun overhead as the man turned back and entered the shop, Akihito's breath caught at the same damn time.

This man went with the color grey in his head perfectly, bringing his jetlagged brain to life, and he decided that maybe grey was actually probably his favorite color now. Grey could be light and gentle, or dark and harsh, and everything in between, it all just depended on how hard you pushed the lead of the pencil against the paper.

At the thought of a pencil and paper, his fingers began to itch, he was going to be inundated with the motivation to create soon, fuck the jetlag - he was in art mode now! This would normally be the time he'd go out and spray-paint somewhere when he was a teen, and now he was practically vibrating with the urge to get this image of the Russian man on paper, on _something_!

Searching through his satchel at his feet under the table, full of travel books and his most valuable things, like his passport and credit card, his fingers found the side-pocket where he kept a supply of pencils just in case this ever happened to him while he was out.

Just like now.

He found a soft-lead pencil that could do the exact things he said, shade soft gentle grey, or deep, almost black shades and every shadow in the middle.

Dammit though, he didn't bring his sketchbook! He'd been adamant he was just coming out for coffee before going back to his hotel room to get it, of course he hadn't expected inspiration to hit him like a knife to the gut a few corners from where he was staying.

Another small flurry of wind swept by him then, and the napkin on his table fluttered, as if calling out to him, it was a thick napkin with the café's name printed in the corner; he only knew that because the glyph-like writing on the shop sign was the same.

It wasn't one of those napkins made up of three thin layers of tissue, but one big fast soft layer that could wipe your mouth without tearing, or mop up a mess on the table, or be perfect enough to sketch on in an emergency.

This was an emergency.

His coffee went cold as he put the pencil to the napkin and began to draw.


	4. Grey Ignites

Thanks to olga_galich for the editing, once again. :)

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><p>So the saying goes, 'Ain't no rest for the wicked.' But Mikhail was still fucking deadbeat tired.<p>

He'd spent all night in grey ol' Moscow, negotiating with the tight-ass Swiss on a joint route which would help expand both their syndicates, and rather than spend one extra minute in the central hub of Russia, with its corporate assholes and conceited wannabes that were forever trying to get on Mikhail's good side, he'd simply gotten the fuck out of there and taken his jet right on the short flight back to St Petersburg, where there was a little bit more goddam breathing room.

St Petersburg was Mikhail's home, even though he operated out of Moscow. As close to a home as he could manage, anyway.

His Renaissance-style apartment overlooked the canals, dubbed the 'Venice of the North' with their cobblestone walkways that were slick on a wet day and old stone bridges with resilient green moss creeping up the sides, connected the small channels of water. It was like stepping back in time, and the view from his top-floor apartment never got old to wake up to in the mornings - the nights he actually went to sleep, that is.

This city: with its eccentric vibe, pumping clubs, one-night stands, and amazing coffee which cured any hangover, along with bustling tourists or exchange students - who had no fucking idea who he was, - traditional buildings, Baroque architecture and laid-back locals, was his one dose of normality in his high-profile existence.

A nice fucking change of pace compared to the pretentious politicians, overambitious associates, and men and women desperate for power and status that was found in Moscow.

A man could only take that bullshit for so long before he just killed the first dumb fuck that crossed the line on a bad day.

Then again, it never hurt to make an example of someone. He wasn't opposed to using death, carnage and violence as tools to set himself apart and make people realize he was the only person fit to lead.

It was better that way.

What was even fucking better than that right now, though, was the warm morning sun of St Petersburg through the open roof of his Hummer as he parked outside his favorite coffee shop to get a much-needed caffeine hit. Fuck those dreary bullshit thoughts – Moscow always made him feel that way.

Even in St Petersburg though, he still felt eyes on him, just like he did now as he stepped down from his Hummer and conferred with Yuri about today's order of business on his way to the door of the quirky little café, with its crooked art and mismatched pieces of eighteenth-century style furniture.

Just another day in the life of Mikhail Arbatov. He ignored that itching feeling that told him someone was watching him and felt his mood pick up as the doorbell chirped its colorful greeting to him when he walked in the shop, which smelt like freshly roasted coffee beans and sweet breakfast pastries.

Shit, it was good to be back.

The barista that made his coffee nearly every morning when he was in St Petersburg didn't seem to be paying much attention to people walking in the door however. He was staring out the window, looking like a love-struck puppy on cloud fucking nine at something outside.

"Oi, Viktor!" Mikhail roused the man from his daydream. "What's got you lookin' like a blissed-out teenage girl, eh?"

The man, Viktor, startled to see their most important customer smirking at him over the counter; he began sputtering out apologies before Mikhail quieted him with a blasé flick of his wrist.

"The usual, sirs?" the ash-haired barista asked once the matter was cleared. He received two quick nods, one from Mikhail, one from the man that was always with him, Yuri, before he began to make coffee and answer Mikhail's original question - you _always_ answered Mikhail Arbatov's questions.

"There is a new customer outside, from Japan, he's really…." Viktor trailed off, and Mikhail got the picture.

"Oh!" he chuckled at the thought that the barista was crushing on some newbie tourist, "you want to bang his brains out." The mafia leader snickered as a massive blush spread over the man's cheeks. His crude sense of humor wasn't for everyone, but he loved messing with people and pushing their buttons more than anything, and Viktor was too fucking easy.

Yuri just sighed. Bless the old bastard, he was the only one who could tolerate Mikhail's company for more than twenty-four goddam hours at a time, and Yuri was the only person who Mikhail _would_ have in his company for any longer than that. Sure, he was close with his other subordinates, but they also all knew their place.

Curious though, Mikhail turned to see what the fuss was all about. He saw a mop of unruly blonde hair that shone like threads of silver in the morning sun, sticking out at all angles in defiance of the fresh breeze that wanted nothing more than to whip that nest of hair in a uniform direction.

The lithe frame was showcased in tight black t-shirt, the fabric that hugged his torso and arms snugly exhibited his lightly muscled form, and a pair of shredded denim jeans tapered the long legs stretched out underneath the table.

What really stood out though, like a splash of color on a rainy winter's day or a vibrant piece of art on the white paint of a gallery wall, was the coiled red scales he could see slithering up his right arm that was facing the window.

The ink creature disappeared up under the hem of the sleeve and out of sight to finish who knows where on that body. Soft pink blossoms caressed the ruby red scales, and flowing shades of grey brought the fore colors to life on that smooth skin.

Well, that was interesting! Mikhail highly doubted any Yakuza who was high up enough to have that many tattoos would be so thick-headed as to come onto his turf without an instant death wish.

"He speaks English, eh? You get to chat with him some, Viktor?" Mikhail asked absentmindedly as their take-away coffees were handed over. They smelt so damn good; nothing could clear the scent of blood from your nose like a strong coffee.

Mikhail couldn't see much of his face; the blondie was leaning over the table and looked to be in a world of his own as he concentrated all his attention on - what exactly was he fucking doing?

"Yes, sir," Mikhail sighed at the formal tone _everyone _addressed him with, before the barista continued, "it's his first day here from Tokyo. He looked pretty beat from his flight so I gave him an extra shot of coffee, looks like it woke him up some."

And it did. Mikhail said his thanks and headed for the door with Yuri on his heels, looking out the window as the messy blond gave all his attention to something on the table, hiding from view as his bangs draped over his face.

When Mikhail made it to the door with his first sip of coffee traveling down and making him feel significantly less irritable, he got a clean view through the window at what the Japanese was doing, as well as the rest of the ink gracing his other arm and his hands.

One deft hand, gripping a pencil expertly as if it were precious, was a blur of a crimson flower as it moved with intensity and purpose over a napkin on the table. The other hand, covered in the same red flower, was holding the napkin still - fingers splayed out over the table - and only gently pushing down on the edges of the makeshift canvas.

Fuck it all, Mikhail was intrigued now, despite his full schedule, lack of sleep and his general attitude of not giving a fuck about some random tourist who the fucking barista thought was hot for sucks sake. He wanted to know what crazy tattooed bastard in their right mind would be up at this hour at a café on their first fucking day in the country, drawing on a goddam napkin of all things.

And, more than anything, he wanted to know what was _on _that napkin. He wasn't close enough to see, but the way that pencil stroked the tissue paper, that delicate flick of his wrist, his posture as his body protected the napkin from flying away in the breeze. This person _was_ in a world of his own, and the only thing that mattered was the shades of grey on that napkin that the Russian couldn't quite make out.

Eh. Why not? He was Mikhail fucking Arbatov. What would it matter if he was late to a meeting, or if he didn't show up at all? No one would complain, let alone question it, so he was going on a detour to that table on his way to the Hummer, he decided.

Detours were so fun, he loved unexpected things, and they always pissed Yuri off, so that was double the fun.

The bell trilled as he pushed the coffee shop door open.

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><p>In some far corner of Akihito's inspiration-struck, jet-lagged but not tired, because the caffeine was working brain, he should have registered the cheery ting of the door bell as Mr Russia and his friend came back out. But because he was too intent on said person coming to life on his napkin, he may as well have been completely fucking deaf.<p>

The portrait of the man's head and shoulders was only the size of his palm, big enough for him to get some finer details in - soft rolling shades of grey streaked his sketched hair in handsome charm, gentle contours articulated a slight curl to his lip, leaving the viewer guessing if it would turn into a dangerous snarl or a playful smirk.

Etched lines of lead defined his straight powerful jawline with an upward tilt to his chin that whispered authority and domination, the way he darkened the plains of his neck shadowed an attitude that would take no nonsense.

Rough heavy lines captured the angle of his built shoulders: not too steep and not too flat, the shoulders of someone immense, commanding and influential, but still Akihito managed to feel like he'd captured that invisible slump which suggested a hue of loneliness. There was a lot to be said, by looking at the angle of a man's shoulders, Akihito always thought.

What he was most pleased about, though, was those eyes - he definitely liked the color grey now. For something drawn on a fucking napkin with a zombie controlling his limbs, this was pretty damn good, all because of those eyes. He'd managed to get the lead to shine, to glean like a soft lead did when you layered over one spot and built up the shading.

Vivid all-knowing eyes looked into the distance behind Akihito's shoulder; and with the morning sun shining down on this napkin the eyes shimmered, dancing in the sun as if the man were up to some sort of mischief, but if he hid the napkin from the light source and placed it in shadow, those eyes turned dark, serious and foreboding as the color grey took on endless depth.

He never thought he could do so much with the grey, but as it turns out it was the only pigment needed to render this man.

Akihito would never have imagined that the _first _thing he fucking drew in his once in a life time trip around the globe, would be a picture of some random man on a fancy napkin outside a coffee shop.

His first photo better be of something meaningful to make up for this… whatever it was.

It could have been _anything_: an historic building with worn brickwork and marble colonnades; a cathedral with its grand spires and stain-glass windows; the view from the plane last night with its pulsing lights and glowing veins. But no. He was swooning, that's right, _swooning_ on some blonde bombshell who was probably a fucking model, or a celebrity, or the definition of drop-dead gorgeous. No matter what he was, he was so fucking far out of his league it was laughable that he was drawing a goddam picture of him.

This man was probably in his own league, and the only way to get there would be for the man to _invite_ you all the way up to his fucking penthouse or whatever.

And here he was being a total creeper and drawing him like some obsessed stalker, if he breathed deeply and hunched over it would totally complete the look.

"Oi! What's that you're working on there, mm?" quizzed an interested voice in deep English with a rough accent that grated all the way down to his bones, snapping him out of art mode with a jolt of his limbs.

Snapping his head up he saw Mr Russia heading over to his table from the door, and oh my fucking god he was_ looking_ at Akihito and it was almost too much to bear, looking at him, into him, _through him._

The thick grease of exhaustion and fatigue chose that exact moment to seize all his coherent thought processes, a big fat 'fuck you' from the gods of embarrassment and shame, because he was forced to watch, as if he were trapped in his own goddam body and rendered inert, as yet another light gust picked his napkin up, and _literally_ carried said napkin off the table in Mr Russia's direction.

He flailed after it like a moron though, grabbing at empty air; that moment of travel-induced catatonia doomed him. The napkin fluttered like a happy fucking gay butterfly all the way to the man's feet.

Fuck you, you traitorous napkin!

Forget about self-combusting under the man's scrutiny, something much worse was happening to him right now. Mr Russia bent with the languid grace of someone who could utilize every muscle in his body, and plucked the napkin from the paved sidewalk between thumb and forefinger that had a large gold ring on it, it flashed under the sunlight in mockery of his situation.

It was like pouring gasoline all over Akihito's humanity. The man flattened the napkin out in his calloused hand, and even now, as he wanted to bury himself, Akihito couldn't help but notice those hands - large, clean, the nails trimmed and neat, with hardened fingers that looked like they knew hard work, but then the man looked down at his likeness on the napkin.

Fuck this, he couldn't wait to self-combust, he was going to set himself on fire instead.


	5. Grey Illumines

This is about the time where I put the note in, that this will probably be the fluffiest, most dorkish-ly cute VF fan fiction I will ever write, slow build style. I am excite XD

Wishing my beta Tarantasik the best with her university exams, this chapter is not edited since her study is more important.

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><p>A light wind rinsed through his hair as Mikhail stood on the sidewalk, frozen in place as he stared back at himself. The sun peeked through the clouds as the world passed overhead, and he saw his drawn expression change as sunlight bathed the white napkin.<p>

He didn't have time to comprehend his sunlight expression because the sun made its departure as quickly as it'd come behind a wispy cloud, he saw his illustrated self change again, and he was left feeling transparent as the corner of the canvas napkin fluttered against his palm.

His eyes that looked back at him which were glimmering silvery orbs seconds ago, were now slate and serious, more like the man everyone thought he was, the man he had to act like in order to _be _who he was.

That's not what Mikhail saw though, he saw the shadows on his neck darken, and his shoulders take on a tint of solitude as the portrait lost its glow, an accurate shade of his state of mind.

It almost felt as if this person _knew_ him, knew Mikhail Arbatov, not the leader of the Russian mafia.

He couldn't have though, because if it were his true image, this napkin would be darkened as cinereous as his personality, but the strong chisel of his jaw, the contour of his lip that looked drawn with surprising softness, and the sharp cheekbones that emphasized his well meaning expression despite the iron gaze, told him that the person that drew this didn't see him that way at all.

The sun danced through the clouds once more, and he saw his likeness in a new light, in the sun he looked…. He didn't even know.

The person that drew this clearly had no fucking idea who he was, because in this tiny napkin drawing; despite that moment of cloud induced darkness, he looked heroic, with an air of grandeur that lifted the hue of his broad shoulders and raised chin, he looked respectable and trust worthy, friendly with eyes that burnished and lips that smirked.

All those things Mikhail Arbatov was definitely not.

It was an interesting way to see himself, and he didn't mind the image at all.

This is what he looked like to someone who didn't know how much wealth he had, how many clubs he owned, how many cars were parked at his residence, or about how many people he wanted to kill and how many people wanted to kill him in turn.

The one thing that this person _did_ know though, was that they found Mikhail attractive, you didn't draw a work of art such as this if you didn't find the subject appealing.

Well then, his little detour had been well worth it for the napkin in his hand.

Folding the napkin carefully; he let out a chuckle as he pocketed it in the inside of his leather jacket, and finally looked up to the artist in question.

Two hands with an ink crimson chrysanthemums on each were plastered across the strangers face in embarrassment, and as he stepped closer and took the seat on the other side of the blonde's table with an obnoxious scrape of chair legs, Mikhail noticed the silvery scars of someone who'd been in one too many fists fights distinguishing his knuckles.

Tattoos bordering on suspicious, fighting scars, and a tenancy to draw men he found attractive on napkins and then be ashamed of said drawing despite the clear talent illuminated by it, what an odd fucking person.

Mikhail liked odd.

He couldn't resist, his appointments could wait for the day. Sorry, Yuri. Not!

"So" he rumbled intentionally deep, his accent thick, "don't you think it's rude to draw someone without their permission, hm?"

A weary groan came out muffled from underneath those ink-adorned hands that had yet to reveal a face, another small gust ruffled that sleep skewed hair and a car whooshed past the coffee shop in a hiss of sound. The slight figure took a breath and released it, before the colorful arms holding up those hands finally lowered the tattooed wall covering bed head's face.

Oh, woah! This guy. No wonder Viktor was staring at him.

Intense hazel eyes full of fire met his, unflinching and willful despite the apologetic tone of his gaze. Not even his silver bangs tumbling in front of those lenses could diminish the passion that lurked beneath his mortification.

A nose that looked surprisingly like it hadn't been broken before, and high cheekbones accentuated his Japanese heritage, his skin was flawless and pale, all the way down to his narrow jaw and soft chin.

Well, it would have been flawless and pale if it weren't for the blush dusting his cheeks. Not an artist on the planet could capture that adorable shade of pink marking his rosy expression.

Seriously, tattoos, scars and defiant eyes, yet this guy was blushing.

Holy shit, it was too fucking cute.

A nervous laugh erupted, and a shy hand pulled that blonde hair back away from his eyes, Mikhail drunk in the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, making the Koi fish on his forearm flex as if it were swimming.

"Haha, it wouldn't have been rude if I didn't get caught though, sorry to bother you." at the last, he dipped his head in apology.

Cheeky, yet honest as well. He really was an intriguing one.

"Where are you going?" the mafia leader asked quizzically as the lithe frame made to get up with his satchel from under the table. This guy obviously thought Mikhail was banging, but here he was trying to take off without even so much as talking to him. Who fucking does that?

The smaller blonde froze half way up from his seat, looking sheepish "Ummm…" there was that blush again. This guy was even easier than Viktor.

Mikhail let out another chuckle of his own as a fan-fucking-tastic idea blossomed, Yuri was going to be pissed. Mikhail he didn't care, he wasn't going to let this much fun escape that easy, especially since this was the person who drew him in a way that spoke of fascination and admiration, he wouldn't mind being looked at like that more often.

"Sorry isn't good enough, so how about I show you around Piter for the day and you can make it up to me that way, mm?" He cocked his head as it rested in his hand, and watched the play of emotions over the young man's face.

So fucking cute.

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* * *

><p>Akihito stood dumbstruck, was this guy fucking serious?<p>

He looked busy, and important, of course he wasn't serious, because he was looking at Akihito with a smirk on his lip and a glean in his eye that screamed mockery.

Who'd want to show a guy like him around, who'd just creepily drawn the dudes face on a fucking café napkin? He looked sleep depraved and impoverished compared to Mr Russia, he wouldn't even want to be seen with Akihito, of course he was fucking messing with him.

Akihito seriously just wanted to run back to the hotel as fast as he could and wallow in his shame for the next century, but fuck that shit, he still had his pride, as much pride as you could have in front of a man like Mr Russia anyway.

"Um, thanks for the offer, but I left some things back at the hotel which I need." His reply was steady and polite, take that!

"Haha, that's okay!" The man laughed, and holy shit it was so charming, Akihito was so fucking doomed. He always thought he liked women more than men, but nope. Not anymore. He was so hopeless when it came to relationships, but he was even more hopeless when it came to trying not to seem like an awkward dork in front of this seriously hot guy.

"We'll go and pick them up." The man stood and towered over him with a twinkle in his grey eyes and a smile on his lips, and Akihito couldn't protest any further.

The other man that'd been watching the entire exchange just looked exasperated as Mr Russia beckoned Akihito towards the Hummer, and said something to him in rough Russian, after that Mr Russia's friend just walked off down the street with a phone at his ear and not even a second glance.

Fuck, this guy was _actually_ serious.

"What's your name?" came the question as the Hummer pulled away from the curb, yes, he was in the fucking car with this guy, but too afraid to put his hands anywhere in case he dirtied the interior or broke something which he couldn't pay for, so they were resting in his lap.

"Takaba Akihito, - Ah, it's that one just there." He pointed the building out that he was staying in, since he had no idea how to read, let alone say its name for the man to know which one it was.

"Hmmm, Takaba Akihito." The man rolled the syllables around on his tongue as they entered the building, "Your first name is Akihito, yes? Can I call you that?"

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><p>The blonde, whose name was Takaba Akihito, gave a self-conscious shrug at his question, his earlier embarrassment over the sketch dissipating somewhat, "If you want to…. Um, so what's your name then?" came the tentative question.<p>

"Just call me Mikhail." He left out his last name, the name that was connected with his family's political ties and with him, that would only destroy the image of the Mikhail on the napkin.

He laughed outright as Akihito tested the sound of his name on his tongue, sounding unsure, and the blonde just huffed at him with a pout on his lips and a blush on his cheeks when Mikhail tried helping him with the pronunciation in the elevator up to his room. What a stubborn, cute little punk.

This was a good fucking detour alright.

The mafia leader was forced to stand outside the hallway and wait as Akihito quickly dashed into his room, practically slamming the wooden door with the gold numbers '25' in his face with an awkward utterance of; 'I won't be long'. He was like a kid who had a messy room that he didn't want his crush to see. This tattooed little fucker was so adorable, he wanted to push his buttons all damn day. He decided he would do just that. Nothing like a bit of blushing entertainment on an impromptu day off!

Soon enough, Akihito grabbed a sketchbook and camera and they were back in the elevator, Mikhail leaned in intentionally close as he pushed the button for the ground floor before Akihito could.

The moment seemed to slow, and Mikhail was tempted to push the emergency stop button actually, to see what the blonde's reaction would be then, but instead his index finger zoomed in on the silver, circular button and brushed away Akihito's hand in the process. Of course, he made the way he stood at his shoulder, with his warm breath on Akihito's neck and one hand on the small of his back seem like a complete accident. Of course he made the way he boxed Akihito into the corner of the sterile lift and stand there a little longer than protocol dictates seem pure fucking coincidence.

Mikhail celebrated internally as he heard the artist's breath stutter, and he smirked down at Akihito as he stepped back without a word, watching the blonde trying to regain his composure. Oh yes, this one was absolutely bloody hopeless around him. So fun.

A few silent minutes later they were in Mikhail's Hummer, driving around the streets of St Petersburg.

First, he took him to the square in front of St Isaac's cathedral, the drive quiet as Akihito simply stared out the window with eyes that drunk in all the images of a city foreign to his. The blushing Japanese was left in the elevator, and Mikhail saw hazel fire burnish in those eyes as a confident artist took over.

He watched Akihito start fidgeting with his tattooed hands, clenching his scarred fists, and then mimic the action of holding a pen, or stroking a brush, charming miniscule movements that the blonde probably wasn't even aware he was doing as he day dreamed out the car window.

It was so fucking endearing; Mikhail wanted to know if that's what Akihito was like when he was sketching on the napkin outside the coffee shop. He could watch this creature all damn day.

Mikhail thought Akihito would want to go into the Cathedral, the interior of the building was renowned for its architecture, with its biblical paintings on the roofs especially the scene in the central dome, stain glass windows that cast colored light on the mosaic floors, marble pillars and gilded plasterwork that formed ornate scrollwork covering 99% of the walls and framed all the images of Christianity.

He'd been there often, more times than he could count, he expected to go in again, but Akihito simply stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the green in front of the massive Cathedral, plopped himself down on the grass with an achieved exhalation, laid back and stared at the sky in a complete world of his own.

"I fucking did it. I'm here." The Japanese mumbled. His eyes looked distant, they took on a glimmer of reminiscence with traces of nostalgia as he recalled whatever brought him up to this point.

As brash as Mikhail was, he sensed this wasn't really the time to intrude on Akihito's musings, something about the way he lay there with his arms spread wide, resting in the soft green grass that contrasted against the color on his arms was alarmingly beautiful. Hazel eyes mirrored the clouded sky's reflection, and the colors changed when clouds cleared overhead. He went from dark to light, just like that image on the napkin, he got that feeling again that perhaps Akihito had seen right through him, and that maybe they were similar in some ways, or maybe Mikhail really was just that translucent to this person, to this complete fucking stranger who had no idea who he was. This day really was turning out many unexpected things.

The wind sighed and ruffled blades of grass against Akihito's skin, the blonde shut his eyes at that, serenity gracing his face, "The grass. It's just as soft as I thought it would be."

He sensed that this was probably a significant moment in the young man's life; it might have been one for Mikhail too, but the moment passed when he went off to the nearby coffee stand to leave the man named Akihito in peace for a few moments. He had all day to tease him, after all, and moments like this with someone who knew not what he was, someone who that morning Mikhail never knew existed, weren't so bad either.


	6. Grey Caresses

Unbeta'd because I didn't want to pester my beta during the festive season.

Happy New Year! Hopefully will get back to all my other works in 2015

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><p>Grey Caresses:<p>

"Here."

Akihito snapped back to his surroundings when he saw the white, bottom of a paper cup hover above his face. Mr Russia, no, Mikhail, offered it to him from where he stood beside Akihito's head, and Akihito took it in thanks.

From here, all Akihito could see was patches of blue, with ever changing quilt work of white vapors billowing across the sky, along with the looming figure of the man he'd drawn on a napkin outside a random café that very morning.

The world turned slowly, an azure tie-dye backdrop moving inch by inch behind the concrete centerpiece that was Mikhail. He was immobilized by that same sentiment he'd had on the plane last night as he looked down at the city - something special in St Petersburg.

That uneasy anticipation gripped him, his instincts told him to run, his pride told him to stand firm and fight this unknown feeling, he _hated_ running, he'd been running from fights for too long, however this presence before him was too big to endure, but it was also the reason he was having this concoction of feelings in the first place.

What even was this? He didn't know this dude from a bar of soap.

Stupid fucking feelings. Piss off.

Despite all that, he couldn't take his eyes off him, he felt heat blemish his cheeks as the man stared back from his aerial vantage point.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Mikhail smirked at him, and Akihito took that moment to cover his face with the back of his other hand, because fuck it, he wouldn't mind taking a picture. That handsome bastard was making fun of him, and he was fucking powerless. Shame.

With his face covered, but his eyes open staring at the deep crimson on the back of his hand, he heard the grass chatter as Mikhail sat down next to him, close. Akihito groaned, this man with his suave leather jacket, flash Hummer, handsome face and eyes that told a million stories would be the actual death of him.

In answer, he got a throaty chuckle, that genuine kind given freely, as if laughing at his own little joke. It was a nice sound, the breeze rolling over his body was nice too, and the sweet smell of hazelnut and sugar that came with it.

Food. _Sweet food_. Akihito sat up and looked in the direction of the aroma.

Mikhail, who was sitting next to him now, was smirking as he held out a paper plate with something that looked descended from heaven on it. A rolled pancake sort of thing, thin and soft looking, sat on the plate with a plastic fork next to it. In the folds of this delicious looking food was a rich chocolate colored sauce, which had to be the source of that heaven sent smell.

The wind chose that exact moment to confirm his theory and blow another waft of sugary, hazel nutty goodness up his nose.

"Are you gonna stare at it, or are you gonna eat it?" Mikhail taunted, a grey twinkle in his eye and a laugh on his lips.

This was food they were talking about here, Akihito's stomach was famous, and he would never be embarrassed about food in front of anyone, not even this upper-class Russian. He took the paper plate.

"I don't know how much Russian fare you've had yet, but this is one of my favorites." Mikhail commented as his own plastic fork tore into the center of the goodness on his plate, more of the sauce oozed out, and Akihito's mouth might have been watering a little.

He managed to stave off shoving it all in his mouth in one go though, instead to ask "I haven't had any Russian food yet, thanks. What's it called?"

"Oh, nice, I'll take you through many Russian firsts then," Mikhail winked at him, "This is Blini. Oi, don't just stare, eat while it's warm." Akihito didn't need any further prompting.

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><p>Buying Akihito Blini from the local coffee stand was another one of Mikhail's good ideas for the day. He fucking wolfed that shit down, finished Mikhail's as well, and then he had to go and get the punk another plate. A tattooed fucking bottomless pit was what he was, one that made some pretty interesting noises when the first glob of hazelnut spread hit his tongue. Dude really liked food.<p>

Mikhail would feed him Blini all day to hear a couple more of those noises, though.

They didn't exchange many words while eating, and they had their second coffee of the day as the sun moved higher overhead, marking the passage of time that Mikhail currently wasn't feeling the press of.

When they were both done, rubbish in a nearby bin, Akihito flopped back down on the grass, his wispy blonde hair entwining with green blades of grass in a striation of colors, like his eyes.

His tight black shirt pulled up with the motion as he sat back too, revealing a thin expanse of pastel skin at the hip, flawless and silken. He could see the V where his pelvic muscles dipped below his jeans, oh, Mikhail was tempted just to lean down and blow a big sloppy raspberry on that skin to see if he was ticklish, but…. Even for him that would be a little creepy. He didn't actually want to scare him off. No matter if he did, he knew his hotel and room number now.

Akihito was a little more relaxed with a full stomach though, and the Russian couldn't decide if he wanted to feed him more, or if he wanted him to starve. So Akihito laid there, his hazel eyes squinting whenever the sun burst through parted clouds to blind him, and Mikhail sat next to him with his hands back in the grass that was soft, but probably not as soft as the blonde hair of the person next to him, and they both let their food settle. If he were honest with himself; the Mafioso would admit that this right here, was probably one of the most fucking _random_ things he'd ever done in his life. Sitting in front of a cathedral with a stranger (a cute one though) and just, _sitting _and not feeling once fucking ounce of unease.

Mikhail wasn't actually keeping track of the time, but it'd been about half an hour when the Japanese man next to him suddenly shot up from the ground to a sitting position. The Mafioso tensed, as was natural when someone moved that quickly, but relaxed again and watched as Akihito started rustling through his satchel to bring out a sketchbook and a pencil, he saw Akihito's eyes faze out in a different way to when he looked at the sky as he lay on his stomach with the book in front of him, his hand twitching over the stark white page in mock drawing, planning.

Then, a small hiss announced the first pencil line, and the next, and the next. Mikhail watched the tattoo on the back of Akihito's hand shift as the tendons flexed underneath his skin, he watched the way his other hand held the book down so gently, to keep the wind from flitting up the image he was currently working on.

Mikhail couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing at first, it seemed to be simple doodling until the very sky he was sitting under started to take shape.

The delicate flicks of his wrist shaded soft gentle vapors through the center, light and open, a near open sky, white.

But then Akihito started working his pencil outwards, to the edges of the page, and things only got darker from there, his pencil pressed harder, the grey got thicker, more ominous; until in the end there was this harsh, slate storm gathering around this one pocket of soft auras in the center.

No, Mikhail couldn't tell if this ashen storm was closing in, or being pushed away by this…. Silver lining in the _middle, _because once again it all depended on one thing. The sun. When the sun shone on its makeshift home on this bit of paper, it turned that small haven in the middle into a blinding white light that completely overwhelmed the imposing overcast surrounding it.

Take that sun away though, put it behind a cloud and let your eyes adjust, and the grey reclaimed its rightful power over that small pocket of purity in the center.

What was the sun, and where could he find that pocket of tranquility in the middle, maybe he couldn't, maybe he _was_ the shadow on the outside.

Mikhail was still busy questioning himself when Akihito sighed, dropped his pencil and slapped a blood colored hand right in the middle of his work, where that clear patch of sky was. And fuck, he wasn't blind to that sort of imagery, a chrysanthemum - Japan's emblem – took its place in the middle and made itself the high light of the image, a crisp contrast from the white and leaden shades surrounding it.

Only he must have noticed though, because the smaller blonde let out another nervous laugh, "Sorry, just felt like I had to get that one off my chest right then for some reason." That shy smile and unsure tone had the Russian snapping out of his dumbfounded state and his world came off the page and went back to normal. That was fucking weird.

Now though, time to have some fun!

"You done being all artsy fartsy for a bit then?" he threw in a hair ruffle, maybe to see how soft those blonde locks were, but definitely for the way Akihito started to sputter another honest apology.

"Naaah, don't mind it." Mikhail got up, and Akihito followed after he'd packed his things. "Now lets actually go _into_ the cathedral and look instead of sitting outside, huh?" he suggested.

Mikhail pushed him along before he could raise another question, crowding him with his chest and getting close not for the last time that day to raise that rose tint on his cheeks.

The smaller blonde got the picture that the Russian in fact didn't mind at all, and they set out towards the entrance of the cathedral next to each other.

* * *

><p>Okay, this guy was definitely playing with him, Akihito concluded as the day went on, through the cathedral he would stare at an expansive wall with its intricate art only to feel a hot breath on his neck and a question asking if he liked it, then for the man to step back, chuckle and move onto the next feature by himself.<p>

The Japanese couldn't actually comprehend what was going on, like, yesterday he got on a plane to Russia, the location that he picked only because it was the first flight _out._

He thought he'd just get a coffee on the first morning, see some things half assed while he staved off jet lag, plan the rest of his Russian itinerary, go back to the hotel and hopefully fall into a normal sleep schedule so he could hit St Petersburg with everything he had the day after.

He managed the coffee part, and then _this _happened. He drew a dude on a napkin, the napkin flew away, said dude picked up the napkin, mocked him and then insisted on showing him around, all the while making mock passes at him and laughing whenever he felt the heat rush to his cheeks.

Akihito didn't know how to deal with someone like this; someone with such overwhelming confidence, an aura that made him the fucking centerpiece instead of the historical art on the walls.

Akihito was a candle with his little flame, outshone and melting under the suns heated rays.

He'd have to come back by himself to appreciate the cathedral to its full spectrum he decided as they left, it was hard to concentrate with someone like Mikhail in the same vicinity.

They walked the streets instead of taking the Hummer anywhere else, Mikhail asked questions that Akihito answered, things about his art studies and things he especially wanted to see while in Russia, since Akihito didn't have an itinerary yet he couldn't answer those ones.

Nothing personal came up, which was good, because Akihito didn't really have anything personal to share that _was_ good.

_Yeah, you know, I used to brawl and I have a horrible temper and I hated everything and everyone when I was younger, my parents are hardly worthy of that title and me being here is just a way to rid themselves of a problem._

That about summed him up pretty good, he didn't even share that sort of dismal shit with Kou and Takato, let alone _this_ guy.

He couldn't bring himself to ask Mikhail questions, he was to… anxious to find out just how much above his league he was, that would just be fucking depressing, because he noticed how people looked at him in the street, some people with awe, some with trepidation, which was no surprise given his charisma, and some with open longing because yeah, this guy was sex walking…. on long muscled legs in jeans that hugged his sculpted ass in all the right places. Akihito was turning into a perv.

And here he was, with a shirt he'd fallen asleep in that was a little too small, black jeans and casual shoes next to this fucking guy that was the embodiment of a Greek god.

The brief touches that left lingering heat and goose bumps up his spine were starting to come more often too - more bold - especially that one time Mikhail squeezed his ass in front of an art exhibit at a gallery they so happened to be standing right at the front of – meaning everyone behind them saw exactly what fucking happened.

Akihito would call it sexual harassment it if wasn't so blatantly obvious that Mikhail was just playing, he was embarrassed sure, but for some reason it never chartered into creepy territory, he had a feeling the man would stop if it got to that.

Plus, he'd be lying through his teeth if he said the touches weren't nice, more than nice, expertly placed; the perfect amount of pressure and the best place, every time. His warm brush of air on his neck, a tickle on his hip, a firm hand on his back. The guy knew exactly what he was doing, of course.

They were on their way out of the gallery where the butt touch occurred, when a large incoming group of tourists with cameras around their necks and fanny packs about their waists took up the entrance space, forcing Akihito back into Mikhail's chest and oh, the collision made Mr Russia's cologne fan out and he smelt so good, sandalwood mixed with his natural musk was such a heady combination, an aphrodisiac that made his head spin.

A large pair of hands found their place atop his shoulders, kneading until they caressed their way down his arms, rough callouses scratched his tattooed skin on the way to his wrists. He had goose bumps all over again.

"Watch out." Mikhail chuckled behind him as the hands dropped away, his chest was still cradling Akihito's shoulder blades though, a perfect fit standing by that door, even though the people crowding it were gone.

"Chop chop!" Mikhaill actually _smacked_ his ass this time, eliciting an audible slap and ripping Akihito almost painfully back to reality, and then he was speaking before thinking as he usually fucking did.

"If you want to touch my dick just fucking do it." The smaller blonde sassed out, unabashed, because sarcasm was his best weapon and he could give as good as he got, he prided himself on that at least.

"Oh?" came the heated words as he turned, and even though the color gray wasn't capable of a warm hue, Akihito could see the fire start and he was proven wrong; those gray eyes could express anything.

He was pushed against the white wall next to the door, the cold surface sinking through his shirt and dousing him in acute awareness. Everyone was looking at the art thank god, and not at the spectacle in the corner.

A thick leg planted itself in between his, and the muscled thigh had Akihito's heels coming off the ground as it lifted him partially off the ground by his crotch.

He was close, _so close,_ he caged Akihito in with one forearm on the wall above his head and the other palm flat against the wall next to his face.

The breath left his lungs, sucked away by the near heat of Mikhail's chest, this close he could see the defined lines of his neck that dipped below his collared shirt with a few buttons popped at the top. The smooth stretch of skin down of his chest with muscled power and definition was staring him in the face as Mikhail moved closer.

He felt his adam's apple roll up and then back down his throat as he swallowed, he dared look up into those grey eyes, and that was a mistake. There was no playfulness there now, just all encompassing want, power, possession. He shuddered against the wall. Fuck.

Mr Russia was going to fucking kiss him! His mind raged from fight to flight, when in his gut; he didn't want to do either of those things. Another group of tourists walked through the door next to them, chattering away between themselves and those lips moved closer still, it took an eternity until he felt hot breath hover over his mouth.

"You should be careful what you wish for." That thick accent whispered, lips brushing against his with the motion, and great, now he had a thing for accents too. Even though it was probably just Mikhail's, his low, rasped accent.

Gone, he was fucking gone. The little candle moved too close to the sun and was now a puddle of wax on the floor.

Suddenly though, all too suddenly, the heat vanished and Mikhail stepped back, transformed back into the playful charmer he was with a smirk tugging at his lip, leaving Akihito bereft against the wall. He struggled to catch his breath and cool down, and he could feel Mikhail's eyes all over him, because he knew he must look totally spaced out right now. Mikhail 1: Akihito 0.

* * *

><p>Mikhail surveyed his handiwork, and he was pretty chuffed with the result, Akihito was out of breath with glazed eyes and an adorable pout on his lips that were so soft it was fucking criminal.<p>

Of course he couldn't resist the challenge with what the cheeky little punk said, he would have loved to stay close, but Akihito still smelt like sugar and hazelnuts, totally edible, and Mikhail's self control had never been _that _good.

He wasn't touching him now to be mischievous, it was more like a gravitational pull; something he couldn't help, he still like the result every time he heard the smaller man's breath catch though, or the way he tried to brush it off as if he didn't like it. They both liked it.

That was enough teasing the both of them for one day though, it was reaching evening, and Mikhail still had plenty of work to do, Yuri had been texting him all day, that sour faced bastard.

"You coming, Akihito?" he called as he stepped towards the door, he relished the fact that the tattooed artist stepped away from the wall to follow him without a second thought, following the Mikhail depicted on the napkin, not the dark Mafioso that had a 9mm pistol in his jacket pocket.

"Don't do that." Akihito chided as they stepped onto the street, his chin raised and his arms crossed over his chest. So cute.

"You liked it." He shot back, and then promptly burst into laughter that drew all eyes on the street when Akihito snapped his mouth shut and blushed furiously.

"Shut uuup." Came the whine as they drew near the Hummer.

"You can try make me, if you want." He taunted as he got his keys out, the steel of his gun brushed his knuckles and the ring on his finger with a clink; a harsh reminder of who he actually was.

All he got to that was a groan when Akihito buried his face in his hands.

"Haha, alright, alright. I'll stop now, you're just too easy!" they got in the car.

"Well, you're just too.. too…"  
>"Handsome?!" he chirped back with a wink as the engine started, they both knew it was true.<p>

Akihito just sighed, and then it turned into a full-blown yawn with his eyes scrunched shut and a tired stretch to go with it, he knew it was time to take him back to his hotel then.

He was a lot less fidgety on the drive back, he sat back in the seat with ease and kicked his legs out, nearly falling asleep as the car pulled up to the drop off bay at the front of the building.

"Hey, Akihito." He roused him awake with a jostle on his shoulder, watching his eyes flutter open and fix on him in awareness.

"Shit… sorry." Came the mumble. "Um.. thanks for today. I think." Akihito said as he gathered his satchel from the foot well of the car.

"Tomorrow too." Mikhail decided on the spot. Yuri could suck a genital he found unpleasant, meaning dick. Mikhail hadn't taken a break in a while.

"Wha?" blonde hair swished as it turned to face him, a scarred hand that told stories Mikhail wanted to know gripped the center console. Akihito hadn't asked him anything, and Mikhail didn't ask enough, tomorrow would do.

"Tomorrow too, meet me at the same coffee shop. You said you didn't know what you were going to see here, right? I'll show you." He offered, he didn't say it to rouse a reaction this time.

"But… don't you have work to do? I'm sure your busy." _Now_ he was shifting in his seat again, his eyes wide in disbelief. Mikhail didn't like that.

"I'm on break." He was his own boss, he could fucking take a break if he wanted, or he'd just get more shit done during the nights.

"Can I think about it?" came the tentative question, a shy hand scratched the back of Akihito's neck, and Mikhail watched the dragons scales on his arm ripple with the movement, he still very much wanted to find out where that dragon's head was, even more so now.

He wasn't a complete ass though, Mikhail knew he was overbearing at times, "No pressure." He smiled when Akihito gave him a relieved grin.

"I actually am going to kiss you now though, Akihito." Mikhail really did want to see him tomorrow; a kiss would seal the deal, surely.

He ignored the flush this time as he leant over the center console, raised his hand to flutter along a soft jaw that thankfully didn't pull back, and listened to Akihito's breath hitch as their lips touched.

It started off as a peck, because he really didn't want Akihito to freak out, he would have felt like an absolute dick then, but then the Japanese sighed into his mouth and that was his cue to press his lips firmer, and hold that jaw a little more in his hand. The thrum of the young man's pulse under his fingers matched his own; he didn't even notice when his own heart started racing, but shit, it left him breathless too.

With a quick swipe on his bottom lip with his tongue for good measure, he pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, meeting utterly confused irises that were desperately trying to figure him out. Yeah, even he could admit this situation was fucking odd, but he'd said it before; Mikhail liked odd.

"See you tomorrow, I hope."


	7. Grey Endears

Mikhail drove back to his apartment to meet with Yuri after sitting in front of Akihito's hotel building for a few minutes longer; thinking. The sun was starting to make its way down to the horizon, throwing St Petersburg into hues of purple and gold as it reached dusk, white nights in this city never failed to amaze him, the sky's reflection on the canals outside his apartment were always a welcome sight.

It was with no surprise that he found his right hand man waiting for him in the foyer of his abode, leaning against the wall with a tick of impatience on his brow.

"Good day?" the older Russian asked with chagrin as Mikhail simply ignored him and went further into his luxury home.

"It was a fucking rad day, thanks for asking, I am taking the day off tomorrow too, by the way." Mikhail chirped with a cheeky wink of his eye.

"What's his name?" there it was, Yuri was never one to beat around the bush, and he was always one to do thorough checks on everything. Not this time though.

"You aren't running his name, Yuri." Something told him that finding out things the normal way would be much more gratifying with Akihito, not giving his name to someone to run it on a database and have it all returned on a piece of paper.

Running a name through the system wouldn't tell him about scars, it wouldn't tell him about childhood memories or favorite foods, it wouldn't tell him likes or dislikes, it would only give him black and white words on a straight lined page. Akihito was much more colorful and bizarre than what any report could tell him, he was sure.

No, actually getting to know someone didn't work that way, having Akihito tell him would be rewarding in itself. Plus, he had an image to keep up, the one of the nice Mikhail on the napkin.

He was sure Akihito would think the man on that napkin wouldn't do such a thing, and so the real Mikhail wouldn't either.

* * *

><p>Akihito might have slept in on purpose even though he was in fucking Russia, out of Japan, he might be burying himself under his blankets half in regret and half in embarrassment right about now too. Regret that he hadn't picked up his balls and just gone to that quirky little café to see if Mikhail was actually there this morning and this wasn't all just some fucked up dream or big joke.<p>

Embarrassment of the fact that once he got up to his room to take a shower and go to bed last night; he'd jacked off to the memory of being pushed against the wall in the gallery.

His lips still tingled from the kiss, and his skin was still hot from wherever Mikhail had been touching him throughout the day; he'd turned into a randy fucking teenager who maybe cried out Mikhail's name as he came all over the shower floor and then felt horribly ashamed after he'd come down from his orgasm.

He had no doubt the real thing would be better, someone like Mikhail was bound to know what they were doing in that department if that fleeting kiss was anything to go by.

Even if he was at the café, there was no way in hell he could face Mikhail now, that fucking napkin incident was bad enough, so he would stay in his too soft hotel bed until morning was done and chew himself out for it later when he would most probably wish he'd just gone to see if Mikhail wasn't actually fucking with him.

It's not like he'd be disappointed if he wasn't there anyway, he couldn't understand why a high class someone like Mikhail would make time for him, but at the same time something about Mikhail felt real and genuine and Akihito was fucking confused because of _feelings_.

Confused because Akihito knew that type, the type his parents associated with that only cared about work and status, people that were significant and note worthy, but Mikhail was even more than that.

Mikhail just had this thing about him; when he entered a room people looked, when he spoke people listened, he had this chilling intensity and Akihito burnt with it when he felt those grey eyes settle on him time and time again. It was daunting to be watched by a person like that, fist fights he could do, but this was on an entirely new level.

So for his own sanity, Akihito turned over and drifted off back to sleep, hoping he hadn't just made one colossal fuck up because of his own cowardice.

Jet lag was so much better than this.

* * *

><p>He didn't know how much later it was - the hotel had those black out curtains that threw your room into permanent midnight - when he fought the sheets tangled around his legs to get out of bed to answer the knocking on his door. Forgetful of his state of undress (in his camo briefs only), because he was a zombie walking at that point in time, he padded barefoot across the suite ready to give whoever it was an earful.<p>

He had the do not fucking disturb sign on his door, and he was going to tear the hotel staff up for waking him when he obviously wanted to be left alone.

He wrenched the cold brass door handle down with haste, and pulled the door back with a swish of air.

"Can you not see the fucking sign?" he snapped at the staff.

Except it wasn't a fucking member of hotel staff.

He'd just opened the door in nearly no goddam clothes with his hair most definitely pointing in all directions, sleep in his eyes, throw in some morning breath too, and who was standing there in all their charming, godlike glory but the person he'd chosen to avoid that morning. Mikhail. Fuck.

The blush hit him full force, because oh, holy fucking shit he could see the grey tint in his eyes darken as those spheres roamed over his body, a different Mikhail from yesterday was drinking him in, this one was possessive and hungry and it was all fixed on him. He'd never been body conscious before, but he sure as hell was now.

He did the only thing he could think of to get out of the situation, and that was shut the door. Instead of it closing all the way and hearing the satisfying click of the door mechanism though; a polished toe wedged in between door frame and door, and then time stood still as Akihito stood on one side and Mikhail on the other. The hum of the buildings air conditioning system was loud in his ears, and the ting of the elevator telling the arrival of someone on his floor was startling.

"Hey, that's no way to greet someone who's bringing you breakfast in bed is it?" that voice teased him from the other side, light hearted and playful, not reflecting the gaze he'd witnessed only moments ago.

His stomach taunted him too, because it chose that moment to rumble loudly enough for both of them to hear, as if his stomach was answering Mikhail's comment instead.

Laughter erupted on the other side of the door, deep and uncontrolled, and dammit it was a nice sound, contagious too; because even as he felt like going back to sleep and never waking up again from sheer embarrassment, he still found himself laughing as well.

"Seriously though." That voice called after a time, coaxing and gentle, "I did bring breakfast even though you stood me up."

Oh. Oh! Well now he felt like a fucking jerk, a big, fat embarrassed jerk, because obviously if Mikhail was here, he'd expected to see Akihito at that café with it's crooked art and odd furniture, and he hadn't been. That only meant one thing; Mikhail wasn't actually playing. Even if he knew that now, he still didn't fucking know what to do about it. Because _Mikhail._

"Just let me in, I won't bite. Promise."

And now _despite_ his state of undress, despite his messed up hair, sleepy eyes and horrid breath, despite the fucking fact he'd masturbated last night thinking about the person on the other side of the door; he stepped away and let it swing open to reveal Mikhail once more.

The taller blonde stepped in, that cheerful twinkle back in his eye and a smirk on his lip, Akihito caught the scent of coffee and whatever delicious food he'd brought in a rush of air as he walked passed, and underneath it all he could smell him, his earthy cologne, clean and fresh. It smelt better than breakfast.

"Your undies are cute as fuck, by the way." Mikhail chuckled as he put the things down on the small dining table in front of the window, and turned to watch Akihito flail around trying to find a pair of goddam pants.

* * *

><p>Mikhail couldn't quite believe it. That tattooed punk wasn't at the coffee shop. He, Mikhail Arbatov, had fucking been denied.<p>

He _knew_ the attraction was mutual, so why wasn't Akihito here?

No matter, he said he wasn't going to be overbearing, but Mikhail was too impulsive for his own good sometimes. So he had Viktor make a take away coffee the same way he'd made it for Akihito the previous morning, picked up some breakfast pastries and drove to the hotel and taken the elevator to Akihito's floor with coffee and food in hand.

Probably the fact that Akihito had blown him off made Mikhail _more_ interested, more curious, more eager and knocking on the door more insistently than he should, not giving a fuck about the 'do not disturb sign' on the door handle.

He heard a shuffle on the other side moments before the door handle clicked and was whipped inward, and what he saw froze him in his tracks.

"Can you not see the fucking sign?" the smaller blonde snapped obviously before he realized who was standing in front of him, because along with a drowsy crankiness in his tone and a stubborn lilt to his English, he was fucking edible.

His hair was spiked in every direction from sleep, his face utterly adorable as he watched the color rise in his cheeks, because he was standing there in nothing but cute camo colored briefs that hung low on his hips.

Mikhail took it all in, and fucking hell. He got to see where the dragon's head was, roaring at him from a muscular shoulder reflecting the intense will he'd seen in Akihito's hazel eyes. With the other arm bare, he could make out a pair of koi fish, serene and at peace on their plane of muscle, just like Akihito had been when he stared up at the sky in front of the cathedral. The tattoos that stood out the most to him still though, were the large chrysanthemums on his hands, and the image of one of them slapping down on that page full of clouds yesterday. He didn't think he'd ever forget that moment.

More than all that though; was the expanse of taut pale skin in full view, a trim waist, light abs and a well-muscled chest with collarbones that demanded attention, beckoned him. Fuck. This guy was ethereal and he didn't even know it.

Then, he noticed; more silvery scars that looked to be from old nicks here and there, one on his ribs with old thread marks where stitches had been taken out, a few on his fucking gorgeous long legs that were near invisible, another on his hip that was rough and raised, and more still, he wanted to find them all.

He wanted-

Oh, never mind that, the door was closing and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Akihito go now, figuratively though, so he managed to catch it shutting in his face with a quick foot in the door.

It was probably a good thing it was like this, because he'd snapped out of staring with what he knew would have been open want, he'd probably creeped the dude out. Because Mikhail wasn't used to restraining himself, when he wanted something he took it, but doing that to Akihito was actually the_ last_ thing he wanted, and so he was frozen in a fight with himself as he stood in that doorway more than anything.

Staring at the wooden door with a dark gap that lead into Akihito's room, he managed to collect himself so he could start off where he actually wanted to this morning.

With a few earnest words, and a laugh shared between them; Akihito finally let the door swing open to Mikhail's relief, it was a tense few moments for him really, because he could do what he usually did and barge in uncaring with guns sometimes literally blazing, because he was Mikhail fucking Arbatov and he generally did whatever the hell he wanted.

Except this time he waited, because he wanted to be let in, and there was a huge difference.

Then, typical Mikhail couldn't help himself; he had to comment on those tight camo briefs hugging Akihito's behind, because as Akihito walked away back into his room Mikhail was graced with a fine view of his fit ass, and the resulting dance as the smaller man jumped across the room to find clothing was both comical and adorable. He quite enjoyed watching the spectacle before Akihito gathered his wits enough to face him again.

* * *

><p>Akihito was feeling self awkward, they'd finished eating whatever glorious fruit filled pastry that Mikhail brought that he couldn't pronounce the name of; the coffees had gone down nicely, and there was an elephant in the room in the form of Akihito hadn't shown up at the café that morning and then also the whole jerking off thing, which was consuming him alive.<p>

Only Akihito seemed to be the only uneasy one, because Mikhail lounged back in his chair with his long powerful legs out, his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, and his leather jacket from yesterday falling open to reveal a tight white T underneath, the picture of cool and casual as he waited for Akihito to sort himself out.

He just sat there, and with the curtains now open; the light shone in, lifting the tone of his grey eyes that were soft and warm, something the color grey shouldn't be capable of being. But Akihito could see it alright. He could see gold strands of his hair highlighted by the morning sun, his skin smooth and flawless.

"Why?" he blurted abruptly, because that was the only word that would come to his head right now.

Why was this man, who looked fit to wear a crown, this man who; even as he sat on a dingy chair in a single hotel room with a tiny bathroom and shitty minibar, still managing to make it look like a throne, why was he fucking here?

Mikhail cocked his head, because of course blurting random words wasn't going to make sense. "Why what?"

"Why are you here?" he insisted, using his utter confusion as momentum to get the words out, because even though in reality Akihito was a loud mouth, sassy piece of shit, Mikhail had him being all shy and fucking _coy!_ For fuck's sake.

He thought Mikhail might need time to think about it, he thought maybe he'd get a cheeky answer that would throw him off with a sarcastic remark or two, but it was instant, straight forward and frighteningly honest.

"Isn't it obvious? Because you weren't there."

Oh. He really was doomed.

* * *

><p>By lunchtime, Akihito's unease had waned somewhat, because he had a full belly and a sea breeze on his face as he stared from the look out over the Gulf of Finland with his camera in hand.<p>

The ocean was the deepest green, shifting colors as the clouds reflection roamed over its surface, the incoming ships from this high up were tiny, insignificant specks in the grandeur of it all. The air smelt like salt, and gulls squawked overhead as the camera shutter went off again and again.

There were no other people at the lookout; it felt like he was staring at the end of the world as the mouth shaped gulf swallowed the in coming vessels into its maw.

Behind him, Mikhail was on the phone, talking to someone in Russian in an authoritative tone, so different from the way he spoke to Akihito, with jokes and jibes, playfulness and wit. The Japanese got the feeling that there were countless layers to the Russian, a complex piece that you could look at from different angles and see something new with each perspective, not with standing that the guy was a living masterpiece anyway.

Suddenly, and he didn't get a fright this time because he was used to the touches by now, a warm hand was on the small of his back, and Mikhail's deep voice sounded in his ear; back to the boisterous tone now.

"Sorry about that. Ready to get going, or you want to stay here a little longer?"

"Ah, no, we can go. Where are we going?" Akihito turned and leant against the rail, staring at Mikhail now as the ocean breeze swept the hair away from the man's face.

Mikhail had taken them everywhere, he really should be more wary of stranger danger, and serial killers that liked to lure people in and all that jazz, but Akihito was a creature of instinct also, and his instincts told him that imposing the man might be, he was no threat, to him at least.

Grey eyes twinkled mischievously for a split second and had him rethinking his earlier statement; before Mikhail caught him off guard to duck in quickly and peck him on the cheek in a way so endearing it gave his heart vertigo.

"Haha, you'll see." He purred, with a charming wink for good measure.

Kisses were something he was definitely not used to, and he fucking stuttered for words as the broad back strode off back to the car park without a care in the world.

"Hurry up, or I'll leave you behind!" came the shout from down the path.

"Fuck, shit!" and before he knew it, he'd slung his satchel over his shoulder and was trailing down the path after Mikhail like a love sick little puppy that he probably was.

* * *

><p>"So." Akihito started as they strolled around a different gallery from yesterday, "how old are you then?" and Mikhail exulted because it was the first personal question Akihito had asked, and he was more than happy to share.<p>

"I'm 32." He said honestly, and then waited for a reaction. He knew he was older, it didn't bother him, but it might bother Akihito.

"Oh, god you're half way dead already, old man." Akihito sassed at him, because he'd been growing bold throughout the day and Mikhail enjoyed every bit of it.

"Old?" the Russian feigned hurt for a split second, before putting on his most devilish smile to stop Akihito in his tracks on the way to the next exhibit, "I'm pretty sure I could still give a 23 year old punk like you a run for your money, brat."

"Haha, bring it gramps."

"Oh, I will don't you worry about that."

* * *

><p>"Brussel sprouts?" Mikhail asked him.<p>

"I'll eat 'em. Ok, your turn, um, peas?" He asked back. Peas were a safe one.

"Ew yuck. Alright then, tripe?"

"Fuck no," the smaller man shot back, walking through the streets of St Petersburg in the late afternoon. "Who likes fucking tripe? What about haggis, you tried that?"

The Russian scrunched his nose, "Nope, and I don't plan on it, you tried escargot?"

"Snails? No, I'm not eating fucking snails." He knew he must have been making a funny face, because Mikhail barked a laugh at him before carrying on.

"You should, they're real good, just like chicken."

"Coming from the man who prefers slugs over peas." Akihito deadpanned.

"Hey! Peas are disgusting, they're like little balls of green vomit wrapped in plastic capsules!" came the indignant remark.

And then Akihito lost it with laughter of his own for a change, because this big burly Russian didn't like fucking peas of all things, he was funny and charming and real, and once Akihito got over himself; a really awesome guy to hang out with.

When he wasn't stealing kisses that was.

* * *

><p>The sun was making its retreat once more towards the end of their second day, and Mikhail was averse to take Akihito back, but he had work to do tonight at least. Yuri would spit the dummy otherwise.<p>

They walked back to the Hummer down the cobblestone streets of one of the older districts, stopping every now and then as Akihito admired architecture, or odd things through shop windows like antiques and books.

In those moments Mikhail would find himself automatically reaching out to touch any part of the younger man, it was instinctual now to rest his hands on his shoulders, or to brush the hair from his eyes. Then there were moments where he just couldn't help himself; like on the lookout over the Port, Akihito had turned around with the sun at his back and wind whipping at his hair, and Mikhail just felt the need to kiss him. So he did.

Kisses still turned Akihito into a blushing mess, but he seemed to welcome his touch now, lean into it almost unconsciously, and Mikhail liked that fact a lot. He liked the blushes too though.

Two days he'd spent with this person, two days he'd known this person was alive and he'd grown incredibly attached already, attached to him, and attached with validating the person drawn on that napkin. Maybe he was that person when he was with Akihito, maybe he _was_ because he didn't have to put up any Mafioso fronts, or keep his guard up. He didn't know, yet. Maybe he just wanted to be that person.

But he would take Akihito back, because he was a businessman first and foremost, Mikhail Arbatov; he had work to catch up on and people to discipline.

* * *

><p>Akihito was back to feeling awkward again; they were parked in the Hummer in front of his hotel, and Mikhail seemed grim almost.<p>

It was unnerving, he wasn't quite sure what was going to happen next, the sun was low now, and it shone in the front window of the vehicle onto their chests, but the angle meant the roof cast a shadow on Mikhail's face still.

"Um?" he started awkwardly, because he thought it'd been a good day, maybe it hadn't to Mikhail?

"Dinner tomorrow." Mikhail finally spoke out loud, turning to him with a cunning smile.

Like so many other times during the day, when Mikhail did something, said something, or just existed in a certain way, Akihito found himself stupefied.

"Hah?"

The Russian sighed, long and tired, melancholic almost as the sun crept lower, lighting up Mikhail's face in by inch.

"I have to work during the day, but meet me in the city for dinner."

Oh, it surprised him how disappointed he was, it also surprised him how much he wanted to hide that fact.

"That's alright, I'm sure I'll find something to keep me busy in this wonderful city, get some drawing done maybe." He gave the satchel in his lap a pat, he hadn't done much artwork today after all, and he could see images in his head that he wanted to get on paper.

A crease appeared in Mikhail's brow, his eyes soft and fixed on him and _now _Akihito knew why Mikhail seemed grim, well he hoped he did.

He smothered a laugh with his hand, looking at a sulking Mikhail in the drivers seat.

"What's so funny?"

"You… you're packing a sad because you don't want to go back to work tomorrow." He managed between breaths, tears at the corner of his eyes.

"No, I am sulking because it means I will have to wait all day to see you again, actually."

Well, that made Akihito stop laughing right at that instant, because Mikhail was staring at him like he meant it, meant it right down to his soul. How could someone be so fucking honest, how could someone say cheesy fucking lines from a movie, and make them real.

Mikhail gave him the slyest grin then, "So, you'll meet me for dinner then?" and yet he was still looking at Akihito, seeking an answer as if he didn't already know what it would be.

"Yup, guess I will."

"You guess you will." Mikhail deadpanned his imitation, "Don't sound so enthusiastic."

"Sorry! I will, you just…." _Caught me off guard like fucking usual._ He wanted to say.

"If you don't want to, tell me, I'm a big boy, Akihito. I won't force you."

Akihito believed him down to the last word. "I will be there." He declared finally, and the genuine smile he got was more blinding than the sun that was sinking lower still.

"Good, now give me your number. I'll text you tomorrow about it."

Akihito gave him his European phone to put his number in too, and couldn't help but drop it as Mikhail gave it back and fingers closed atop each other. Hands weren't something that'd touched yet, and the callouses were just as rough as he'd imagined, masculine fingers closed atop his wrist; the phone forgotten.

The image of that scarlet chrysanthemum he adorned on his hands with pride being caressed by Mikhail's strong ones was an image stained in his mind. He knew what he'd be drawing next.

"Look at me, Akihito." That deep voice called, and even though his accent was rough and thick, the tone was still soft enough to have him lifting his head.

"I'll see you tomorrow." And Mikhail twined their fingers together and squeezed before Akihito got out of the car and went back to his room in a daze.

Two days he'd known this person, he thought to himself as he lay face down in his pillows, screaming internally.

Two fucking days.

What would it be like after 3 days, 5 days? A week? How long would he be here, to find out what it would be like then?


	8. Grey Rejoices

**AN:** Dorks being cute dorks. Also, short chapters give me life, just saying. Date next chappie anyway, after I update some other stuff. Have a good weekend!

* * *

><p>Akihito woke up early the next morning to the annoying buzz of his phone vibrating across his night stand, once, twice; only a text message then. That had him curious, because no one messaged his European number. He kept in touch with his few friends online, through facebook updates and a couple of messages back and forth. His parents had this number, and he had messaged as soon as he got the phone set up to let his parents know he'd arrived and all that bullshit, out of obligation of course.<p>

His dad replied with one word; 'O.k', and he hadn't used the phone for communication since. So with a sigh, and his head buried under a plush pillow, his arm reached out in the artificial darkness and scrambled across the night stand until he felt the slimline device cold under his fingers.

Squinting, he looked at the screen and waited for his vision to clear as his eyes adjusted to the offensive light abusing his pupils, one eye open and the other wanting to remain asleep; he deciphered the name on the screen and promptly sat bolt upright when he saw who it was.

Misha. 6:47am.  
><em>Wakey wakey, hands off snakey! Don't have too much fun without me today.<br>__Boo work, send me a selfie of your blushing face so I can get through the day ;)_

He couldn't help the idiotic grin that split across his face, and fell back into his pillows with a rush of air to bury himself under his blankets because even though it was dark, he just needed to get away from the text message on the phone somehow.

Misha. That's what Mikhail had entered himself in Akihito's phone as. What Mikhail said to call him, because calling him Mikhail was like calling someone by their last name in Japanese apparently, formal. Misha. He'd given Akihito a wink and said he didn't want to be on formal terms. The memory of that might have had Akihito smiling like a high school girl, as well as the text on his phone. Fucking suave bastard.

He was much more brave over telecommunication too, so he flicked his lamp on, lay back down, held the phone out, snapped the photo and quickly pressed send with a caption before he could chicken out. His heart fucking raced, and he pretty much instantly regretted sending it like he knew he would, but too late now.

* * *

><p>It was early when Mikhail sent the text by normal society standards, he'd been up the entire night though, got blood on his shoes, gunpowder on his hands and flown to Moscow and back in the space of that time, he needed a pick me up. It was his own fault he had extra work to do, more meetings in a shorter space of time, but because of those things he got two days with the odd Japanese artist that was currently occupying his thoughts as he sat in the office at one of his clubs.<p>

The morning glare coming through the windows was bright and warm, not reflecting his mood at all; when his phone bleeped on his desk. He picked up the phone, not expecting Akihito to text back this early, but expecting another shitty report from another shitty subordinate who couldn't do his job, with a problem that Mikhail would probably have to go and fucking fix himself before the day was done.

He shouldn't complain really, it was his responsibility after all. The reason he was the boss, in complete and utter control over the Russian underworld, was because he was the only one with the brains, ambition and resolve to take what he wanted, when he wanted, stomping on anything and anyone that got in his way in the process. It's why they all deferred to him, why he was always treated with formality. How fucking boring. With a half sigh, half growl; he checked his phone, and felt his mood instantly shift when he saw who it was.

"You little shit!" he laughed as he sat back in his leather chair and opened the message.

Akihito. 6:51am. 1 photo attachment.  
><em>U woke me up, no blushing selfie for u. -_-<em>

Indeed it was no blushing selfie, it was so much more than that. Akihito lay on his side with the hand attached to the camera held level with his face on the pillows, as if he was in bed with the cheeky punk. His long arm held the camera far from his face, and he could see the scales of the dragon swirl around and around all the way up to the shoulder against the bed, even in the dim light he could make out the red scales, grey waves of the background and pink blossoms floating on his skin. In fine detail close to the camera, losing clarity the further it went up to the dragons head.

His hair was the typical mess it was, falling against the pillow and draped across his face as he lay there with a his eyes closed as if asleep, and his lip curling ever so slightly; giving the mask of sleep away. Oh my god, so fucking cute.

That wasnt even it though; what it was, was the image of his naked chest and his other tattooed arm, and that unforgettable crimson chrysanthemum on the back of his hand in the middle of of the photo, pulling his goddamn middle finger at him, scarred knuckles and all. He couldn't even fucking remember the last time someone pulled the fingers at him!

Oh, what a breath of fresh air. One that smelt like the cheap shampoo that came from Akihito's hotel, and the sweet pastries that he stuffed in his face at every chance he got. Fuck, he hoped the day went quickly. He sent his reply with a snicker, before getting up and moving onto the days work with renewed vigor.

* * *

><p>Misha. 6:55am.<br>_I'm sorry, I forgot princesses need their beauty sleep or they turn into cranky little brats. :P  
>Am heading to work now, I'll text you when I can. Have a good day. x<br>p.s I fully intend you give you that kiss, so watch out. haha.  
>Misha<em>

"I am not a fucking princess!" Akihito near shouted at his phone, indignant with his heart still racing from sending that stupid photo, and fluttery with the thought of more kisses. Holy shit, what had come over him? He could feel his pulse in his ears, hammering away at any chances he had at falling back to sleep.

"Fuck, well I'm wide awake now." he tossed his phone in the sheets, and got up to throw his curtains open and let the light stream in, bathing in the warmth that touched his skin. Today was going to be good, he had all day free to wander, so he knew exactly where he would be going; The Hermitage, one of the largest and oldest art and culture museums in the world. He wouldn't get through the five of the six buildings open to the public in one day, not even two, you could spend weeks there, Akihito knew, so he might as well make a start.

The Hermitage in St Petersburg; Russia, away from home and away from all the shit that went with it, and then dinner with Mikhail, an impossibly good looking Russian he'd encountered on his first day here, he almost couldn't believe it.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Akihito was lost to any concept of time when his phone went off, he was still in the Egyptian collection in the first building; The Winter Palace it was called. Half the time he was torn between looking at the exhibits or looking at the building's interior, because it really was a fucking literal palace. Built in the 1700s and home to many imperial families and Tsars in that time, it was the thing that fairy tales were made of, he read somewhere that The Winter Palace had over one thousand rooms, and remembered thinking that that was impossible, but nope. It was on the info brochure handed out after he paid the fee and stepped into the section open to the public:

"The Winter Palace has been calculated to contain 1,786 doors, 1,945 windows, 1,500 rooms and 117 staircases."

If it weren't for the partitions, guides and signage that was thankfully in multiple languages including English and Japanese, he would have been physically lost as well.

So he checked his phone, welcoming a distraction from all the grandeur.

Misha. 11:23am.  
><em>I'm tired, send me another photo so I can refuel. I won't make it otherwise x_x<em>

He scoffed at the message, before covering his mouth so people couldn't see what it was doing. He wasn't in the darkness of his hotel room now. So he stepped away into a corner and finally let his grin show as he typed out his reply.

* * *

><p>Mikhail ignored the looks he received from the businessmen at the table as he pulled his phone out, the deal was going his way anyway, and they knew it, checking his phone would do nothing to change the outcome.<p>

Akihito. 11:27am  
><em>No can do, not allowed to take them the hermitage. U'll have to struggle thru. U can do it! XD<em>

"Fwaha!"now they were looking at him with wide eyes as he looked fondly at the screen, because no one ever saw that look on Mikhail Arbatov's face.

Oh fuck, even texting Akihito was fun.

"Mikhail, get off the phone and sign the documents." Yuri hissed in his ear.

"Right, right. My bad. Now, where were we gentlemen?"

* * *

><p>Akihito was still in The Winter Palace building when he felt his pocket vibrate, he was in the Russian art section and everything seemed to remind him of the person who was messaging him.<p>

Misha. 1:56pm  
><em>Still no selfie? :( just take one real quick, promise you won't get in trouble. Pleeeaase.<em>

"Oh, fine then."

"Haha yuss!" Mikhail chuckled as he looked at his newest message. He was having way too much fun with this.

Akihito. 2:00pm 1 photo attachment  
><em>thug life.<em>

The photo was of him pulling a serious face, a mug shot, except his eyes were fucking twinkling in all their hazel glory and there was no hiding the mischief there, because a security guard was right behind his back in the shot, looking the other way.

Well, of course the guard was looking the other way, he'd sent word through to the security sector of The Hermitage and told them that a blonde Japanese man with tattoos up his arms and flowers on his hands could take however many the fuck photos he wanted and he wasn't to be stopped.

Mikhail wanted a photo of Akihito, so he was going to get a goddamn photo even if he had to pull some strings.

He laughed mischievously to himself as he took a photo and sent his reply.

* * *

><p>Akihito hadn't even taken two steps from where he sent the photo when his phone told him he had a reply. Mikhail sure was messaging a lot for someone who was meant to be at work. He'd have to ask what he did to allow him such freedom over his work time.<p>

Prying into personal life would start making things meaningful, and then Akihito would find out how different they truly were. He was happy for things to remain as they stood, with no social boundaries in the way.

In his own little world of thought, tuned out to the people walking around him with their info guides and finger pointing at different pieces; he checked his mobile, and because he was in his own little world, not realising where he was, he exploded with riotous laughter and doubled over holding his stomach because FUCK.

Misha. 2:05pm. 1 photo attachment.  
><em>I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me.<br>_And the goddam photo was nearly identical to the one he'd sent, except he was pulling some ridiculous gang sign over his chest, and had his head tilted to one side like he had swag or some bull shit and oh my god, it didn't suit him one bit because he was so much classier than that and that's what made it so fucking hilarious.

He was brought out of his laughter by a tap on the shoulder, and he turned to see a security guard looking at him a little nervously. Yeah, he probably would come off as bat shit crazy, damn he was going to get kicked out of The Hermitage for fuck's sake.

"Sir, could you please be a little more quiet?" The man dressed in black security clothing _asked _him. As if Akihito had any say in it, or was he really that intimidating? He knew his tattoos could throw some people off, but this dude was looking at him as if Akihito had a gun pointed at his head.

"Fuck. Shit. I mean, sorry! I'll be quiet." he stammered because swearing wasn't very polite to someone who'd pretty much just let you off for causing a disturbance in an extremely quiet building where any loud noises like laughter carried down _all _the hallways.

The guard just gave a nod and moved off, so Akihito sent a reprimanding text back to Mikhail before doing the same and getting the hell out of that section of the building where people were looking at him as if he had two heads and was about to sprout another.

* * *

><p>Akihito. 2:09pm<br>_Stop it. I laughed so hard I nearly got kicked out! -_- Thug, my ass. _

Mikhail's booming laughter echoed down the halls of the corporate building he was leaving after the meeting was over, drawing all eyes to him as he looked at his phone and walked, uncaring of the people who had to jump out of his way.

Akihito wouldn't get in trouble or kicked out either, he'd made sure of that also. But it was funny knowing the Japanese had no idea, he could do nearly anything he wanted in that museum right now and he'd get off scot free.

He kept laughing in the elevator, with Yuri and another of his men looking at him like he'd actually lost it this time, he was a loose unit after all.

Stepping into the waiting limo to head off to his next appointment at the shipping yards; he typed his reply.

* * *

><p>Misha. 2:17 pm.<br>_Oh, I'll thug your ass alright ;) be ready for dinner at 7pm. I'll pick you up, will be busy for the rest of the afternoon. Don't cause too much trouble.  
>Misha xx<em>

"Thug my ass…." Akihito deadpanned, "Did he really just say that?" He shrugged off the cheesy pick up line and focused on the rest of the text with a nervous flutter in his belly; 5 hours until he'd see Mikhail again.

He had a feeling the clock was going to go really slow from here on out.


End file.
